


litany in which certain things are crossed out

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-05
Updated: 2010-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	litany in which certain things are crossed out

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Richard Siken's poem of the same name.

This is how it starts:

Eames shoving his way through Arthur's door, pulling Arthur behind him and not allowing him breath, not allowing him doubt, just tugging. And they're drunk, they're drunk and they're high on adrenaline, the lust tied in with just escaping death, the absolute thrill of it, and Eames tastes like whiskey on Arthur's tongue, Arthur's tongue already laden with gin and the sharp tang of lime, and they shouldn't mix, the flavours, they don't mix, but Arthur's high with it all, with not dying and Eames' mouth and the way Eames bites off a laugh when they stumble on the way to the bed.

And Eames is laughing, he's laughing bright and clear and real, nothing snide about it, when Arthur trips on his own shoes trying to get out of them, trips on his pants trying to get out of them, because he's gone clumsy, clumsy with something he can't place, and his hands are shaking on his belt, on Eames' cheeks, and Eames is saying _hush, hush_ , even though Arthur isn't making a sound, just panting out breath, desperate, and he didn't think he could want anything as much as this.

There are bodies, there are their bodies, Eames' hands warm on his sides, tugging him in, the space between them slick with sweat and spit and their mouths panting humid air, sharing breath and Eames is murmuring something Arthur can't make out, something that is nevertheless true, and there are bodies, both of theirs, and they meet and they catch hold and Arthur doesn't want to let go.

And here is a moment:

The morning after, Eames ordering them eggs and bacon, and telling Arthur he needs to keep his strength up with the sly look in his eyes. Arthur had been expecting quiet, had been expecting Eames to slide out like a shadow in the night. He wasn't expecting this, Eames with eggs in his mouth, eating messy, with a sliver of bacon snapped between his teeth.

Except it feels right, this morning, with eggs and bacon done just right, Arthur soaking his toast in bright yellow yolk while Eames steals his bacon out from under him. It feels so right that Arthur almost doesn't mind, even if the bacon is exactly right, done perfectly, and Eames eats all his bacon and Arthur can't do anything but smile.

And here are many moments:

The calls between jobs and during jobs and the trill of Arthur's phone snatching him out of precious sleep, answering in slurred vowels and Eames apologizing for waking him, but not being sorry, not really, and they talk until dawn lights up the sky and Arthur goes to work exhausted and orders his latte with three espressos and snaps at the extractor because she can't seem to do anything right.

And the gritty eyes of late flights, so many flights and so many airports, Arthur could catalogue the world in airports, and snatching the flight that takes him to Eames, Eames opening a hotel door in nothing but briefs and lighting up like he didn't expect it, like every single time is a surprise, and Arthur doesn't want him to ever open it up without that thrill of discovery on his face, and his hands are rough until he finds unexpected bruises, and then unbearably gentle, and he's gotten so thin, how has he gotten so thin, who is he pretending to be when he isn't with Arthur?

And the jobs, so many jobs, the money stacking in his bank account, and Arthur could never spend it all, not like Eames, who accumulates and then spends, a prince and then a pauper, and Arthur has millions and he never spends it, and what is he even working for, anyway, what is he trying to prove, when the jobs go so wrong sometimes and he shoots a man in the face because it's that or die himself, and he's so tired, he's so tired all the time, and he doesn't dream, and he misses dreaming, misses feeling like things are unreal, because everything's so real all the time, and Arthur just wants it to stop sometimes.

And here is a moment:

Arthur's wrung dry, a job that was supposed to take three weeks and ended up taking three months. Eames had been there, for some definition of there, meaning halfway across the world but a phone call away, a flight away if Arthur had asked. But Arthur doesn't ask, because he's so tired, he's so fucking tired, he just goes to his hotel every night, tries to sleep, fails, stares at the ceiling and misses Eames so much it hurts like a wound. But he doesn't ask, and Eames doesn't come, and Arthur just gets more and more tired.

And then it's over, they skate through it like a practice run, and Eames is a flight away, but Arthur's so tired. He keeps staying in that hotel because he's been there three months, and three months is the longest he's stayed anywhere in years. It's cold and impersonal and it's starting to feel like home, whatever that could mean, whatever that means, and Arthur wants to sleep, he just wants to sleep without drugs in his veins, and he wonders if this is what withdrawal feels like, he wonders what it means to dream and not have it mean anything in the morning.

And Eames barrels into the city like a burst of sunshine, all bright and glaring, shows up on Arthur's proverbial doorstep, and Arthur lets him in, lets in the only true thing that he knows, a totem, because he's been rolling fives so long he doesn't know what they mean anymore, what they designate.

And Eames says _Arthur_ , with this catch of breath like Arthur looks exactly how he feels, collapsing in upon himself, and Arthur doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know what to say to his goddamn name, and he says, _sorry_ , finally, but that's not the right word, he doesn't know what the right word is, and he sits down on his bed and Eames kneels at his feet like he's praying.

And maybe he is, but it's just _Arthur_ , he says, like that's all he can say, and that's not even Arthur's name, but he's been Arthur for ten years and maybe that's enough, maybe it's enough that Eames knows what he's been for ten years, because it's felt like longer, days stretching into weeks, into months, into years, until Arthur doesn't know how old he is anymore, doesn't know how long he's been alive, except he's thirty-two and he feels like he's died a thousand times, and he has died a thousand times, and maybe that's too many and maybe that's not enough.

And Eames says _Arthur_. And Arthur says _that's not my name_. And Eames looks like him as if he's a ghost, looks right through him, and says _please_. And Arthur doesn't know what he's asking for.

And this is how it ends, with Eames face tucked up between Arthur's shoulderblades, pulling him open, stretching him to fit, and his cheek is wet against Arthur's skin, and Arthur looks down at the sheets beneath him, looks at the sheets twisted in his hands, and he wants to know what Eames is asking for, he wants to do whatever he's asking for, but he just doesn't know how.

And this is how it starts:

 _Hell of a job,_ Eames says, with the huff of a laugh. _Let me buy you a drink._

Arthur can think of a thousand reasons to say no, but he doesn't say no. He takes the drink that's offered, gin and tonic, a slice of lime, and he matches him, drink for drink, until they're drunk and sitting too close. Arthur can feel the stretch of Eames' thigh, hot against his.

Arthur's hair's come loose from the gel, from running and fighting in dreams and outside, and Eames tucks a lock of it behind his ear with hands gone a little clumsy.

 _Come upstairs?_ Arthur asks, and it's a voice that doesn't sound like his, but it's the right thing to ask.

 _Yes_ , Eames breathes like benediction, and they don't stop touching, not really, not after that.


End file.
